


Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

by rocknerd



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Nen, Amorality, Anti-Hero, Anti-Villain, Gen, Guns, Slow Burn, murder by contract, set somewhere in the mid 20th century, there will be a car chase scene eventually, think noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknerd/pseuds/rocknerd
Summary: Three misunderstandings. Two betrayals. One little lie.In which Illumi is a suave hitman and Hisoka is Hisoka but in a suit.





	1. Not The Lovin' Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
> By each let this be heard  
> Some do it with a bitter look  
> Some with a flattering word  
> The coward does it with a kiss  
> The brave man with a sword” 
> 
> \- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: You're Mine, You! by Peggy Lee

_The First Misunderstanding_

Hisoka’s shoes were wet. They weren’t his usual black heels, which was both a relief and a shame; he prided himself on their unusually pointy ends and, among other things, how effortlessly he could walk in them, but they were also old enough to look they belonged to his grandmother. Given the choice, though, he would much rather have lost them to this sticky mess than the beautiful leather boots he was currently wearing. The _expensive_ leather boots he was currently wearing, comfortable and generously tall, with soft velvet padding on the inside and such gleaming polish that the lightning from outside the window reflected easily off of them, shining brightly on a good portion of the warehouse. In fact, Hisoka would go as far as to say that if he, as an individual, were so guileless as to have in place a mentally-mapped list of his most treasured items (which he wasn’t, and hadn’t been in a long, long time), the boots would rank nowhere below fifth place at any given time. And that, considering the sheer magnitude of things Hisoka Morow owned, was quite the achievement. 

This only made it more of a pity that they were ruined. He stared, disappointed, at the toes of the dark leather, now soiled by the warm blood seeping through the stitches of his socks. With a sudden _tch,_ he remembered that his socks were white. 

Things were no going at all well for him today. 

He looked up to the source of his misery, frowning. A flash of lightning struck in the distance, briefly illuminating the dark figure at his feet, head blown to smithereens, the relics of his brain pasty across the damp mud beneath them. Hisoka slipped his handgun back into its holster, irritation palpable as he kicked the corpse aside, striding briskly towards the barrels of water at the back of the large depot. 

Once by the barrels, he lifted a lid, peering in. The stench of old wood and oil invaded his senses, and he grimaced. This place was completely classless. Perhaps it was a good thing the man in charge was now dead. At least something might _happen_ ; at the moment, the stagnation was nothing if not unbearable. 

Hisoka pulled a handkerchief out of his pant pocket, lowering a hand into the barrel and bringing it up soaked. He squeezed out the excess before dropping to a knee and dabbing the leather gently. He didn’t have any dish soap on him, nor any other leather-cleaning materials; plain water was sure to cause spotting and discolouration. It was cruel, but for now, he’d have to make do. He couldn’t be caught bloody-shoed in the streets, though given the storm it was unlikely anyone else would be wandering them. Nevertheless, it was part of the discretion he had agreed to maintain when he’d first joined the Gen’ei Ryodan last Spring. Of course, having forged every last document to earn himself a place amongst the group, Hisoka was technically a non-member, which meant he could very well do as he pleased, but given how unexpectedly the mission had gone already, he felt it unwise to blow his cover. 

He wasn’t supposed to kill the man in the warehouse. He was supposed to interrogate him, draw him out, maybe get a little dose of blood for himself if the situation leant itself to such measures (which it always did anyway), but _bring him back alive_. Those were the orders he’d been given. Hisoka didn’t like orders, but he’d followed these ones to the tee. The fact that he’d gone out of his way to work cleanly and was now having to return empty-handed, however, only reaffirmed his disdain for playing it by the book. 

He realised he’d have to now face not only Chrollo, but the rest of his pathetic henchmen as well. And this was after he’d pissed off a good half of them by finishing up their jobs during his downtime. Nobunaga and Uvogin especially were sure to make a scene at his failure. He thought about having to deal with their fucking dumb jokes and pitiful attempts at getting on his nerves. The prospect was gloomy. After three promotions and a job in direct contact with the Boss, this was sure to ruin his reputation. Possibly get him kicked out. Not that he cared for such consequences most of the time. 

Except this time, he had reason to stay. 

The closer he’d gotten to Chrollo, the longer he’d observed him from the sidelines, the more apparent it became to Hisoka that there was a tremendous amount to be gained from the leader. He was strong, stronger than his slender frame and doe eyes let on, and everyone in the district knew the power he had: they called it the Bandit’s Secret, a deal with the devil that had made him immune to the tactics of all his opponents. He was invincible, they said. He was impossible to outsmart, they said. He had punched them in the face and they loved it, they said. Hisoka had heard the stories enough times to know the details were impossibly inconsistent; the whispers nothing more than vacuous rumours. For all his infamy as the brain behind the Ryodan’s games, Chrollo’s little tricks were well hidden. 

As a fellow trickster, Hisoka respected him for it. The mystery he was shrouded in would make it all the more interesting to fight him, learn what the secret to his prowess was. _Why did people fear him so? What was the extent of his influence? What would be the best way to kill him and simultaneously maximise his own pleasure?_ These were questions Hisoka liked to pick apart and formulate answers to in a small compartment in the back of his mind, right next to the other compartment which continually conjured up images of a half-naked Chrollo and how he might look without those greasy pants killing the view of his ass. Anyway, the point was that he was very much interested in maintaining his closeness with Chrollo, and murdering the one man he had instructed Hisoka _not to kill_ would not keep him in his good books at all. 

What made it infinitesimally more tiresome was that Hisoka hadn’t even killed the man. 

Someone else had, while he was in the midst of his torturing session. The tie had been just tight enough to turn the manager’s fat face blue, eyes bugging out wildly as he drooled everywhere. It wasn’t a pretty sight and there was hardly any resistance, which was a bore, but Hisoka had become sadly acquainted with such tedium. Ten seconds in and fatty had agreed to tell Hisoka everything he knew. But before he could cut the tie away with his pocket-knife, a soft huff of air echoed from his left; the next thing he knew, the manager lay dead at his feet, blood pooling around him neck-down, the rest splattered across Hisoka’s boots and the front of his suit. 

Hisoka hadn’t the faintest idea who was responsible, because by the time he had traced the source of the bullet, there was -- predictably-- no one to be found. The exhaust was slightly ajar however, letting a draft through onto the tops of the shelving boards of the warehouse. The bastard had escaped, probably having been hired to snipe the manager and turn on his heel right after. He probably knew Hisoka was planning on bringing him here too, which meant he had willingly disrupted his plans after witnessing first-hand what he was capable of. That, he had to admit, took some spunk. He imagined he’d enjoy killing this sniper if he ever found them. Not that it mattered anyhow, because it was unlikely he’d recognise them even if they did meet. 

Having scrubbed most of the blood off his shoes, Hisoka moved on to the sleeve of his suit jacket, grumbling as the stains got worse with the water.

Footsteps. 

Hisoka’s ears perked up, but he continued to wipe at his jacket nonchalantly, noting that the sounds came from behind him. The movements were light, practised, calculated enough to be almost indistinguishable from the sound of the rain thudding against the glass of the windows, but Hisoka heard them anyway. He wasn’t well-known for nothing, after all. His senses were keener than most people, and that was an understatement. It was one of the reasons Chrollo had promoted him so quickly, much to Phinks’ perpetual chagrin. 

Gun in one hand and his knife in the other, Hisoka whirled around, poised to attack. In front of him stood a shadow of a person, willowy and tall. Not as tall as him, but nearly, body hidden beneath a knee-length black coat. Their pants ran long and thin, tight enough to leave no room for creases. A long ponytail followed the person as they stepped forward, face coming into the light. 

So this was the murderer. Well, it was a good thing she showed up herself. At least Hisoka could take her head back as an excuse. He began assessing his new opponent in more detail. Pale skin, impossibly silken hair, soft features. Yet there was something overtly menacing about those eyes of hers. Hisoka had seen his fair share of dead eyes back in the clamps of Meteor City, but this was different. 

These ones weren’t full of aggression or malice. That wouldn’t have disoriented Hisoka at all-- he was accustomed to that sort of thing. No, these eyes were devoid of everything. It was a strange sight, like crater holes in the face of a human; like the holes worms made in perfectly ripe apples, plowing into the darkness straight towards the rotting core. Even within the unsalvageable hovels of Meteor City, Hisoka had never laid eyes on a person so casually empty. The concept was utterly fascinating. Hisoka decided, in the seconds before the silence was to be broken between them, that he would satiate his curiosity with this doll no matter the price. Even if he lost a couple of limbs, the reward of answers was bound to be worth it. 

He kept his finger on the trigger, amber eyes piercing the hypnotic reverie of the black ones facing him. 

Suddenly, the assassin smiled, raising her hands in a show of surrender. The smile itself was jarring, and the muscle of her(?) forearms even more so. A man? Hisoka’s eyes flitted briefly to the juncture of the tight pants, and a dainty laugh echoed, light and airy. 

“Yes, I’m a man, if that’s what you’re wondering”, the man nodded cheerily, hands still in the air, the creepy smile still on his face. His eyes seemed disconnected from the rest of his head. 

Hisoka kept his mouth in a still line. “Interesting assassination technique. Although it is rather cowardly.” 

Nothing passed across the man’s face at the provocation. Instead, he laughed another mirthless, robotic laugh. It was though he’d learnt about laughter from old radio shows or something. Bizzare, really. And all the more reason to stick around for a bit. Hisoka slung his gun back in place, twirling the knife in his hand as the man in front of him shrugged. 

“Ah, well, I prefer to call it a tactic of stealth, which I’m sure you’ll agree isn’t so much cowardly as it is a matter of intelligence.”

Hisoka smirked. This man looked around his age, and had an edge to him too, even if he hid it well behind those effeminate features and polite turns of phrase. 

“Fair enough.” Then, “What’s your name?”

“Oh.” The man blinked as if dumbfounded, hands gripping the front of his woolen coat. Hisoka immediately stood on guard, eyes narrowed to slits. Someone told him once that those glinting eyes of his would be enough to send the hardest criminals packing at the sight, but this man was unaffected. Rather, he seemed to think he had offended Hisoka in some way, and began clarifying his actions. 

“Apologies. I understand that you’re suspicious, but I am not going to kill you. I work solely on the basis of pre-regulated contracts. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation if I were to kill you here. You are not my target.”

Hisoka grunted. A weak threat. The man was so sure he could kill him if he was so inclined? That took some nerve. In a simple one-on-one fight, he was certain he’d win. Then again, assassins weren’t about face-to-face combat or fair play-- this one wasn’t about play at all. He was all about work, apparently. The dark-haired man’s left hand reached for his vest pocket, and Hisoka let it. He was agitated anyway-- if they ended up fighting, at least he could get the pent-up bloodlust out of his system. 

Sadly, no such thing occurred. Instead, the man pulled from his pocket a small patch of cloth and a vial filled with pale blue liquid. He held them out for him to see. 

“I noticed your suit is bled on. I suppose that’s my fault.”

Hisoka fought the amused smile pulling at his lips. “Why do you carry around hydrogen peroxide in your pocket, if you don’t mind me asking?” He knew why, of course, but confirmation wouldn’t hurt. 

The man chuckled lightly, letting a few drops of the liquid suffuse the cloth. “That’s obvious, is it not?” No elaboration followed, but Hisoka didn’t mind-- the way he had skirted the question was rather telling in and of itself. The man took a cautious step forward, side-eyeing the knife-point Hisoka was rubbing absentmindedly with the pad of his thumb. He motioned to Hisoka’s blood-stained chest with the cloth in hand. 

“Allow me.”

His reflexive answer was a definitive _no thanks,_ but he shoved aside his prudent intuition. He was about eighty percent certain he wouldn’t die if he were to let this man near him. Twenty percent was a sizable risk in his line of work, but he didn’t particularly care. Right now, he was barely keeping a lid on his curiosity. This would be the perfect way to size up this peculiar doll-man. He nodded in consent. 

“It’s the least you can do.”

The man returned the nod, pausing a good ten centimeters in front of him before reaching a neatly-manicured hand towards his chest. Hisoka observed the long nails, talon-like but filed meticulously so they curved just so. The cloth made contact with the lapel of his suit jacket, the pungence of the peroxide stinging his nose. A dampness sighed against the cool of his inner shirt, and in a quiet moment the hand slid over his abdomen, dragging surely across and upwards before dabbing gently at the stains. Hisoka watched the man work, his body hunched slightly so he could pad the stains correctly. His fingers pressed lightly against him, but he had a feeling there was a significant restraint in the man’s movement. He was trying his best to hide his strength, but it was obvious to Hisoka from the sheer pressure of his fingertips that this was a well-trained killer. Tresses of dark hair slid down the side of the man’s shoulder, and he tossed them back easily, continuing his work down the side of his pants. He smirked. 

This was getting interesting. 

Suddenly, Chrollo was the last thing on his mind. The man before him, however, kneeling at his feet as he flicked the cloth like a paintbrush against the sides of his blood-bitten shoes, was quite the character. 

“What’re you doing down there?”, Hisoka purred, letting the sugariness of his voice lash out without shame. He wanted to see if it would throw him off. 

Wide eyes looked up at him, their peculiar aloofness sending a thrill through his veins. The man’s lips parted questioningly.

“Huh? Oh, your shoes will ruin if you don’t clean them now. But I can leave them be if you want.” So he wasn’t one to lean into suggestion, Hisoka noted. It was possible it was all an act to study him, but that wasn’t likely. There was a genuinity to his emptiness, at least as far he could sense. Which meant that the man might be susceptible to misdirection, so long as it was subtle. This could be useful information, he postulated, especially if they were ever to face off against the other. 

"Is that fine?", the man asked, blinking slowly. His face was neutral but his voice raised slightly towards the end of his question, as though he was unsure. How contradictory, how strange, how marvellous that expression was.

Hisoka knew a moment more of this and he’d lose what semblance of control he had over his bloodlust, so he smiled sweetly down at the man, eyes wandering for the last time over the slender column of his neck and the dip of his collarbones. This was quite the specimen. Hisoka then pointed to the frothing of the peroxide on his suit. _Just one more little experiment,_ he told himself. 

“Do you have a dry handkerchief on you? Mine’s water-soaked.”

The man nodded, standing up. He pulled a clean handkerchief out from inside his sleeves, and proceeded to wipe dutifully at the jacket. This time, he stood closer, maintaining eye contact with Hisoka the whole time as his hand continued downwards, back straight. Once the reach of his arm ended in such a posture, he slid his wrist back up unhurriedly, tucking the cloth into Hisoka’s breast pocket before taking a step back. It was a power play if he had ever seen one. And it was magnificent in its execution. He could feel the heat of the touch trailing down his body, smell the clinical scent of the assassin's clothes, hear every gentle breath he took like waves rushing to shore within the shells of his ears. The contact was visceral in a way he hadn't experienced since childhood. This hitman was incredibly skilled, and probably good in bed too, Hisoka's mind added, the sensations prickling the inner layer of his skin.

“I’ll leave you to the rest; I’m sure you can manage”, the man said, wiping his own hands carelessly against his pants. Hisoka grinned. 

“Tell me your name,” he tried one last time. He knew he’d be thinking of this person for a long while to come: such was the nature of his fixation. It would help if had a name to attach to the pretty face in front of him. 

“I cannot,” the man replied firmly. 

“Why?”

“My work demands confidentiality.”

“Oh please. We’re both in the same industry as far as product goes. You should know that names mean little, even when they’re revealed.”

The man cocked his head to the side. “Then why do you want mine? “

Hisoka licked his bottom lip hungrily. “Because I would like to meet again.”

The man considered this. “For what purpose?”

“I imagine friends are hard to come by when you’re busy blowing off heads.”

“I do not have friends.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Hisoka dismissed, not missing a beat. This was a game he was adamant about winning. “But”, he continued languidly, “you’re an efficient man. I’m sure you realise that one ally is better than none, especially when you have more than a few jobs on your hands.”

The man slipped the vial back into the pocket of his vest before crossing his arms. “I suppose so. But why should I trust _you?_ ”

His mouth curled upwards. “You shouldn’t.”

A moment passed as they gauged each other’s motives, tension blanketing the air. Outside, the rainfall had ceased, and cracks of morning light were needling through the crevices of the walls. 

The man turned around, making for the main entrance of the warehouse without a word. 

Hisoka slid hands into pockets, head tilted slightly as he watched the lithe figure walk away from him until he disappeared into the shadows he’d been borne of. 

Well, he’d tried his best. 

He took a deep breath, cursing his bad luck, and then wrinkled his nose at the smell of the corpse a few metres away. Which reminded him, he’d have to come up with an excuse for this mess. Perhaps he could fabricate the information the manager was supposed to give him? It wouldn’t be his first lie, nor the most important. Or better yet, he could simply tell the truth. There was always the chance that doing that would invoke the wrath of Chrollo, leading him straight into the hellfire he’d always wanted to bathe in. 

But first, the smell. He would have to snag the tie currently around the manager’s neck before disposing of the body, seeing as his fingerprints were all over it. Lost in thought, he squatted beside the carcass, loosening the tie. 

As it slid off the neck, an unsavoury gurgle resounded in the desolate warehouse, A spray of fresh blood spurted noisily all over him, getting on his face and down his suit for the second time that day. He let out an irritated sigh. 

“Hisoka, Hisoka…”, he chided himself, the way his mother used to when he brought home dead rats or pigeons at the end of each day on the streets. Of course, mother mostly chided him for the unnecessary markings he would carve into their sides as a way of preventing the neighbours from stealing their dinner. She found his dedication to their survival rather amusing, it seemed. This, however, was hardly so amusing to him as he had been to his now dead mother. He stood up, shaking his arms to get rid of as much blood as he could. He pulled his jacket off, folding it so the stains weren’t visible. Now what to do with the rest of his clothing… 

“Hisoka, is it? An unusual name.”

He turned around, eyes flitting to where the dark-haired figure now stood, looking smug. He had no reason to be to be, though. The name was nothing special to him. 

“Any reason you’re back here?", Hisoka asked, voice flat. "As you can see, I’ve got work to do. And particularly low-level work at that-- I’d rather not waste my time.”

“I’m here to inform you that I accept your request." 

Hisoka raised his eyebrows. 

The man continued. "From now on, until further developments, we will be allies.”

Good news had never felt so invigorating. Hisoka could hear the roar of his heartbeat in his ears, feel the rush of blood to his head at the assassin’s words. At long last, his luck had turned. The next few months could prove to be highly entertaining if he played his cards right. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, walking over to the barrels to grab some more water for his face and clothes. Before he made it there though, the man appeared before him. 

“Here.” He handed Hisoka the vial and a handkerchief of the seemingly infinite ones he was able to procure from his vest. 

He accepted the materials gratefully, immediately rubbing his pants clean. 

The assassin watched him, considering something with great concentration, before reaching a bare hand into the barrel and pulling it up wet. Without hesitation, he cupped Hisoka's chin with one palm while the other gently cleaned his face, fingers moving so quickly that the trickster barely felt anything but whispers of air. There was little reason to resist, seeing as it essentially sped up the process for him to have this man clean his face. His hands were cold, colder than the water, colder than the heavy winter breeze billowing outside the warehouse. Nails tickled his skin, and he couldn’t help but smile at the feeling. He studied the man’s face, the haughty turn of his nose, the thin lines of his eyebrows, the stray hairs falling gently over his cheeks. Before he could make a comment on the intimacy of their current position, however, the man pulled back. 

He wiped his hands against Hisoka’s shirt, muddying it with residual blood. Hisoka huffed, irritation threatening to ruin his mood all over again, when the hitman suddenly vanished. In the blink of an eye, he reappeared beside a door leading to the back of the building, creepy smile adorning his face once again. 

“Illumi”, he said, pointing to himself, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Here are some notes I took while drafting this: 
> 
> 1\. I've run out of ways to say "the man"  
> 2\. I'm not sure about how accurate the whole hydrogen peroxide situation is  
> 3\. Fact: Hisoka lives his life to the tunes of Ms.Peggy Lee.  
> 4.


	2. It's Almost Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Man, so long as he remains free, has no more constant agonizing anxiety than find as quickly as possible someone to worship." — Dostoevsky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: The Shadow Of Your Smile by Nancy Sinatra

_Illumi._ How bright and evocative for someone so emotionless. He turned the name over on his tongue, enjoying how the syllables tumbled around in his mouth. The car he’d broken into was chugging along, noisier than he preferred, but there was little else to complain about. He’d just met a ghost, or so it felt like. _Illumi._ What a perfect name for this contradictory puzzle of a man. 

In the backseat, the manager sat meekly, the top of his neck clogged with Hisoka’s prized jacket and some spare rope. It was a compromise he’d had to make but as devastating as it was, Hisoka had plenty of mediocre suits to make up for the loss of one good one. Next to the fat old man was the body of someone much younger, head still intact. He was rolling around awkwardly as the car drove uphill. Hisoka flipped open the young man’s passport.

John Adam. He was a foreigner. John _Adam._ Two first names. A tragedy, really; he was completely forgettable. Hisoka briefly wondered what Illumi’s last name was. The hitman had had a very distinctive look. Perhaps he was Eastern European. Maybe he was of mixed race— quite rare in this neck of the woods. 

Hisoka turned back to the road, eyeing the swaying hula woman on the dashboard. John was probably here on vacation. The weather always seemed to attract middle-class bachelors. That and the plentiful women in the red light district. Either way, it was just as well that he’d died. When Hisoka held a gun to his stomach, he’d done nothing to defend himself. A weakling like that was bound to get hounded in a city like this. It was almost a gesture of kindness on Hisoka’s part to finish him quickly. 

Hisoka held onto the steering wheel with his right hand, sifting through the glove compartments for a lighter. He flicked it open, letting the small flame dance for a moment in the darkness of the night before lighting up the passport. The fire climbed up the pages, erasing every inked detail without sparing an inch of memory. Once it began licking the tips of his fingers, he threw it out the window. He heard it flop against cool gravel. The flame would die soon. John Adam would cease to exist. 

——————-

“Look what the cat dragged in”

Hisoka ignored the jeering, adjusting his vision to the dimly-lit room. Nobunaga swivelled around in his desk chair, leaning an elbow on the conference table. Uvogin was pointing a large thumb at Hisoka, grinning at his friend. 

Nobunaga guffawed. “You killed him?”

Hisoka sneered, dropping the bodies to the floor and shutting the door behind him. 

“I didn’t kill him.”

“So you let someone else kill him?” Uvogin laughed, prodding a carcass with his leg. 

“Do you take me for a fool?” Hisoka asked sharply. Uvogin’s smile slipped away. His eyes hardened. 

“I take you for a liability, Hisoka, and so do the rest of us. But it don’t matter what we think. Frankly speaking, there’s no point even defending yourself now. The Boss-”

“He’s dead.” 

Hisoka turned, the familiar voice causing his throat to tighten. Maybe it was because he was soft-spoken too, but there was something unspeakably delectable about quiet power. The havoc of a butterfly’s wings was always more satisfying than the ugly stomp of a barbarian. 

Chrollo stepped towards them, his long coat rustling behind him against the wooden panels. As always, his fingers were hidden between the folds of a book. This time it was _Crime and Punishment._ Comical. 

“How did it happen?”, Chrollo asked, tucking the book away. His gaze rested on the corpses, but his attention was clearly on Hisoka. 

“An assassin,” Hisoka said simply, gesturing to John Adam’s limp body. Chrollo frowned. 

“I see. Under whose instruction?”

Hisoka crossed his arms. “I-”

“Boss!” The door slammed open behind him, and a blond man rushed past, his bespectacled girlfriend in tow. 

“What is it, Shalnark?”

Shalnark took a moment to catch his breath. “It’s…it’s the Zoldycks.”

The face Chrollo made at those words, the one where his eyebrows rose high into his hairline and the intrigue in his irises alone sucked every distraction out of the room, that was one Hisoka always enjoyed. But now, looking at the stray hair on his face, the slow blink of his eyelids, all the redhead could think about was Illumi. 

He was sure his obsession would subside with their next meeting— it was unlikely that Hisoka could meet two equally engaging men in the span of half a year in this insignificant town. Highly unlikely. And given how powerful Chrollo was, it was more than probable that Illumi would be a letdown. But he couldn’t shake the name from his thoughts.

_Illumi._

_Illumi._

_Illumi._

Hisoka realised he’d missed some important exposition that Shalnark was dutifully presenting. Shizuku stood shoulder to shoulder with him, their hands clasped as they faced their leader together. 

Chrollo moved to sit beside Nobunaga, pensive. From his expression, Hisoka assumed it was some new inconvenience. He just hoped things would tie themselves together and he could shove the blame onto whoever the Zoldycks were. He’d heard the name thrown around occasionally, but never bothered to ask. They sounded too aristocratic to be any fun. Probably black-market clients with too much time on their hands. 

Nobunaga pointed to John. “They must have hired him. Looks like they really don’t want us at the banquet, huh?”

The event had completely slipped Hisoka’s mind. He struggled to recall when it would take place. The banquet was the reason he’d been interrogating the manager— he had information on the whereabouts of a specific woman named Neon. The Ryodan needed her help to secure intel and work themselves into the banquet. There was an auction to be held sometime soon, and there were enough valuables for them to loot half and live comfortably till the age of ninety. The goal, however, was 100% of the items. Half-assing anything wasn’t the Ryodan’s standard, nor was it their legacy. 

So the Zoldycks didn’t want them at the auction. Or at least that was Nobunaga’s hypothesis. But why? 

Chrollo was thumbing the pages of his novel. “It’s not like them. They wouldn’t trust an outsider to carry out jobs.”

“Maybe they were busy. The banquet is taking up a lot of media attention. And you know their old lady doesn’t mind talking her mouth off. She’s a real gem, that one.”

Uvogin nodded. “If they’re so easy talking to the cameras, I’ll bet they’re careless about things like this. They probably didn’t expect Hisoka to kill him off so quick.”

Hisoka ignored the backhanded compliment. There was something far more interesting on his mind: 

_Illumi Zoldyck. _It fit together like lock and key, the sounds sliding perfectly into each other.__

____

“How many of them are there?” Hisoka asked. 

____

Shalnark was kneeling by the manager, inspecting his clothes. “The Zoldycks?” He paused.

____

“To my knowledge, there are seven. Possibly eight. The parents, Silva and- what’s her name-”

____

“Kikyou,” Uvogin and Nobunaga said together, perverse grins on their faces. 

____

“Right. Then there’s the grandfather-”

____

“Zeno”, Chrollo added, still engrossed in something as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

____

“And four children. Their names have never been released to the public. No one’s even seen them, although if I remember correctly, two of them are adults now.”

____

So Illumi was a son of the Zoldycks. It made sense, the expensive apparel he sported when they met, the wealthy accent that bled through when he spoke. An assassin clan, was it? Hisoka assumed so from the way Chrollo spoke of them. According to the Boss, they were the hands-on type, which made sense when the family business was slitting throats.

____

But why had Illumi spared him? In the few beats after the manager’s head had combusted, Hisoka had nowhere to hide. He’d ducked, but for someone of his caliber the hitman could have killed him easily. He had told Hisoka it was because he wasn’t his target. Yet while contractual obligations were one thing, leaving witnesses was rather another. And Illumi didn’t seem like the kind to spare one out of pity. 

____

_So why am I alive?_

____

A lovely question. One that the redhead couldn’t answer himself. At least, not with the sparse information he currently had. He needed to meet with Illumi again. Get what he wanted straight from the source. The banquet would be the perfect place. And the way into the banquet was through Neon. 

____

Chrollo stood up, seemingly reaching the same conclusion, albeit through a different route.

____

“It doesn’t matter what they did. We will not be delayed further.” 

____

He made his way back down the corridor, holding his book open. “Find Neon. Bring her here.” 

____

He gave Hisoka a pointed look. 

____

“Alive.”

____

_————-_

____

Machi leaned against the coffee table, mug in hand. She blew the haze of steam outwards, watching the tendrils curl and glisten in the sunlight. The men in front of her were playing a game of cards, drinking heavily in the sweat of the midday. 

____

“Remind me again why _I_ have to work with him?”, she asked sullenly. 

____

Phinks replied with a puff of cigar smoke in her direction. “Because none of us want to.”

____

“I don’t want to either,” she snapped, taking a sip of the scorching hot coffee.

____

Shalnark smiled apologetically. “You get along with him the best, Machi.”

____

“I’m sure he can get the job done on his own.”

____

“I could”, Hisoka appeared beside her. “But I wouldn’t mind a little company.” His hair was wet, lying in limp curls over his eyes. Machi scowled. 

____

“I don’t associate with perverts.”

____

“Well,” he smirked, letting his eyes fix on her with uncomfortable intensity, “It’s a little late for that, my dear.”

____

She gripped the handle of her mug tightly, and Hisoka felt some semblance of affection for the lady beside him. Machi had the patience of a saint, and he would be a fool not to abuse that patience of hers. 

____

“Shall we leave?”, he asked, knowing full well she was only halfway through her beloved morning coffee. 

____

Predictably, her nostrils flared, rosebud lips pursing. 

____

“After I finish this.” 

____

It wasn’t just that he enjoyed annoying Machi— today was an exciting day. Today Hisoka would get one step closer to meeting with Illumi. 

____

He had laid the groundwork last night, going off on his own to find the lovely Neon. He’d spent a while loitering the streets near the manager’s workplace and home, but found nothing of interest. Irked, Hisoka had moved towards the bordellos, hiding himself in a corner with a glass of cheap wine. There were bodies everywhere, modesty nothing more than a myth in the confines of the bar. Even with his back against a wall he could feel the press of warm flesh as swathes of men and women swept past in waves, the tinny rock and roll from the speakers guiding them surely. It was when he’d stepped out for a smoke, having had enough of the stench and chatter, that he had seen her.

____

Or rather, she’d seen him. And surmised, perhaps, that he would pay her well. He had indeed, even though he was fonder of blondes on most days. Her oddly bleached hair, wrung a pale blue, had immediately caught his interest. Few people in this city thought to set themselves apart. Fewer still knew how to do so. But she had approached him without hesitation, a playful smile on her lips, fluorescent cotton floss bounding upon her petite head. 

____

Once he’d confirmed that it was indeed Neon, things began falling into place. He’d treated her well in those lightless hours, well enough for a week’s worth. He was confident she’d never forget it. But he’d also gotten information. Enough, in fact, that he could already envision the scene that would unfold when he finally faced Illumi again. 

____

He’d struck up a deal with Neon. One she couldn’t resist. Hisoka didn’t even need to assess her to know she would keep her word. Whether he was going to, however, was a slightly different story. 

____

He wasn’t supposed to act in his own interest either, finding her without permission. It was what the contract with the Ryodan detailed. But this was a mere suggestion to Hisoka— unsolicited advice which he neglected, the consequences for which he could easily divert. What mattered wasn’t that he’d gone against the code. It was that he keep it covert.

____

Hisoka pulled himself out of his scheming, frowning when he realised Machi was still sipping her coffee. There was an amusement in her eyes. 

____

She knew he was impatient, although she probably didn’t know why. She was stalling as payback for how he’d embarrassed her earlier. Machi was cute like that, always claiming the high road but tripping up over the pettiest of details. Hisoka, thankfully, wasn’t bound by such airs and graces. He did what he needed to do to get what he wanted, self-image be damned. 

____

“You’re ever so slow at this.”

____

“You’re ever so impatient,” she parroted. 

____

“I can always buy you some on the way. There’s a coffee shop just around the bend,” Hisoka tried, moving closer to her. Nobunaga and Phinks snorted in the background. 

____

“No thanks.”

____

She set the cup down at long last, the sound of ceramic against wood sweet to Hisoka’s ears. Machi slipped past him to fetch her coat from the rack. 

____

“Always rejected, aren’t you, Hisoka?”, Shalnark laughed from behind his fan of cards. Shizuku’s leg was draped over his lap as she slept. Shalnark ran a hand down her calf gently. It was sweet, Hisoka decided, but pathetic, as young love often was. And Shalnark’s tongue was becoming wilder the longer he evaded it. It was acceptable— for now anyway. He didn’t have an urge to cut the sapling as it grew. Eventually it would pose enough of a threat to motivate an attack on his part, and then Hisoka might have a little fun. But it was too soon yet. 

____

Hisoka sighed mournfully, shaking his head in resignation. “A woman’s heart is unknown”, he lamented.

____

Machi rolled her eyes. “Is that Nabokov again?”

____

“Dostoevsky.”

____

“The madman?”

____

“The genius!”, Hisoka said, fully offended by her dismissiveness.

____

She held the door open, beckoning him over. He complied. 

____

“He’s right though, isn’t he? A woman’s heart is rather hard to find” He tilted his head, mock-despair in his eyes. A part of him felt genuine sadness at the thought. 

____

Machi would be such a fun plaything if only she weren’t so distant. He was working on that though. A side-mission, if you will, to thaw the frozen soul of this woman, have her as she was, heart and all, and then leave her to her pining. It would be most delightful to see that happen. Hisoka leered unabashedly, taking in the sharp fabrics trying (and failing) to hide the soft curves of her body.

____

She made a disgusted noise. “Only if you search with your dick.” 

____

Hisoka chuckled. “And who is that?”, he teased, following her out onto the rubbled pavement. 

____

“Hemingway.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> It's taken a while for me to get where this is going, but I've got it locked (kinda)!


	3. A Patient Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka and Machi find Neon, but taking her with them proves difficult when an unexpected guest shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Chapter: Never On Sunday by Manos Hadjidakis (I also love the Andy Williams version and The Chordettes' English cover, so take your pick)

The red light district was somewhat of a tourist attraction. Hisoka had been there plenty of times, for various reasons, but rarely to bed anyone. It sounded unbelievable, but Hisoka was pickier than he let on when it came to anything further than backseat bingo. Really, he enjoyed the ladies’ performances and their jazzy clothing, but apart from the glamour he wasn’t particularly interested. 

Anyway, plenty of people were not so choosy when it came to such things. In fact, when the monsoon wind swept inland this time of year, Hisoka was convinced it carried it with it some sort of fertility particle that messed with everyone’s hormones. Suddenly the bar he spent most of his free nights in would crowd to the brim, people shoving their bodies into every crack of free space till the building flooded with a massive, pulsing wave of arms and legs. It was, to say the least, an unpleasant experience.

Thankfully, afternoons were less busy. 

Machi and Hisoka walked down the main street, turning a corner to find a row of girls with badly bleached hair staggering around in high heels. 

“Which one is her?”, Hisoka asked, enunciating as carefully as he could without seeming unnatural. 

Machi narrowed her eyes, scanning the area. _Anytime now._

“Looking for me?”, a young lady sidled up to them on cue, smiling wide in Machi’s face. 

Machi blinked. “Are you Neon?”

“That’s what they call me,” the girl giggled. 

“Why do they call you that?”, Hisoka asked. 

Neon gasped slightly, batting her long eyelashes. “Why, it would be awfully improper of me to tell you that, Mister!”  
_A little over the top, but good enough._ Frankly Hisoka had expected this part of the plan to fall through already given Machi’s incredible instincts, but it seemed that Neon’s uncomfortable mix of innocence and raciness was throwing her off. 

“How about you show me, then?” He threw in a little eyebrow-wiggle for good measure. Machi groaned beside him, unimpressed. 

Neon giggled again, hand on her hip. “Pay up and I will.”

She was awfully flirtatious today, lacy petticoat pulled taut over her skinny frame. Her eyes were wide as she stared up at him— Hisoka’s night with her was having the effect he’d anticipated, though it was all going a little overboard to be comfortable.

He smiled at her, watching pink blossom on her cheeks as he maintained eye contact. She looked down, hands fidgeting nervously. 

Machi stepped between them. 

“It’s kind of Hisoka to offer”, she spared him an annoyed glance, “but he’s not the client. Not this time.”

She’d picked up on his dalliance with the young roundheel. Hisoka was counting on that, not that he never really doubted her. Machi was a clever girl, even though he forgot the fact easily— good thing she reminded him now and again. It kept him interested. And in this very instance, his history with Neon would easily mask most if not all the small inconsistencies that were sure to arise eventually. It was good that the idea was now seeded in Machi's calculating brain. 

Neon, for her part, remained unfazed. It seemed she sorely wanted to keep her end of the deal— he supposed the reward was insurmountable for someone like her. 

“Who is the client?”

“I can’t tell you his name, but you’ll be glad to hear he isn’t interested in women.”

Neon nodded. “Most clients aren’t”, she said matter-of-factly. “They all want girls. That’s why I’m so popular.”

Disgust drew itself across Machi’s face. “That’s not what I was talking about. He doesn’t want to bed you, Neon.”

The girl blinked, glancing between the two of them in confusion. When she looked at him, Hisoka nodded subtly.

It had been crucial to keep this information from her precisely because of this; she wore her emotions on her sleeves. It was an odd request being made of her, and any indication of expecting it would surely have roused Machi’s suspicion. So far, things were coming along nicely. 

“But that’s my job. What else would you pay me for?” _Good question. Well asked._

“He wants information. Nothing more. It’ll only be an hour or so, and we’ll drive you back here ourselves.”

Neon shuffled in her place slowly. “An hour? And off-site? I don’t know…”

Machi sighed. She was never a great negotiator. Hisoka decided to help her out. 

“Neon, darling, is there anyone who could accompany you? Someone you trust to keep you safe?”

Well, I suppose I have a few guards. Daddy tells me to keep them around all the time, but it’s quite awkward since we have nothing in common. Shall I bring ‘em along?”

“How many people are we talking?”

“Oh, well actually I only need one of them. He’s probably in the reception office-”

“I’m right here”, a light voice said. 

Machi and Hisoka tensed, moving closer to each other as they searched their vicinity. 

From the other side of the street, a young man walked over, his choppy blond hair falling to his shoulders. Neon waved to him cheerily, but he looked rather irritable, suit stained with mud and suspicious liquids. He stood on guard in front of her. 

“You shouldn’t be loitering with strangers.”

“Isn’t that her job?”, Machi grumbled, obviously pissed at this new problem they had to deal with. 

Blondie didn’t seem to get the joke.“If you want a booking, you have to go in there.”

He gestured to the small, brown building by which the rest of the women were gathered. 

“We have a request to make of Neon.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, but-”

“Kurapika, why were you hiding?” _An unnecessary question._

“I was keeping an eye out; I know you don’t appreciate me hanging around all the time.”

As their trivial chit-chat continued, Hisoka felt the air stale. This kid could become a real nuisance. If it weren’t for Neon, he’d have killed him already. 

“It’s not for business”, Hisoka said calmly, watching the expression shift in Kurapika’s eyes. Machi crossed her arms, probably unsure of what to do, but handing him the reigns to sort this out. 

“Then why did you offer her money?”

“We didn’t, did we, Neon?”

The girl shook her head. “No, they didn’t.”

“Did they tell you to say that?”

‘I’m not a child, Kurapika! I know what they said!”, she whined. So they weren’t on good terms. Excellent. 

“Yes, this is a personal matter that Neon has taken up.”

Kurapika looked hesitant. “Very well, but as her guard I need to know who this client is.”

Machi stepped forward. “That’s none of y-”

“Chrollo”, Hisoka interjected. “Chrollo Lucilfer.”

Kurapika’s face lit up in pure horror. It was evident that the name rung a bell.

Before Hisoka could dissect the emotions rushing across the blond's features, he felt a sharp sting on his lower arm; the bite of familiar, half-chewed nails against the skin of his elbow. Machi’s side was pressed against his, her expression neutral. Her arm slid down quickly, leaving him with the the delicious leftover aching. If she thought she was threatening him, Machi wasn’t as smart as he made her out to be. There was nothing more addictive than the sensation of pain— she should have realised by now that reprimanding Hisoka physically was a dead end. 

Kurapika pulled Neon close to him, lower lip trembling. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Neon looked curious, oblivious, perfectly airheaded. She was an astounding actress when she wanted to be, Hisoka noted. Then again, all whores were. It was practically part of the job description. 

But the star of this show was Kurapika. The blond boy swallowed thickly, building up courage before speaking shakily. 

“How do you know Chrollo Lucilfer?”

Machi held a hand up when Hisoka opened his mouth. “He’s our boss”, she clarified. 

Kurapika clenched his fists. “What does he want with Neon?”

“Only to speak with her.”

“About what?”

By this point, Machi was fuming, and boy was it a treat to witness. Who knew how this might end up! Hisoka took a back seat, watching the conversation bubble. 

“It’s none of your concern.”

Kurapika pulled his shoulders back, a brashness in his stance that intrigued Hisoka further. The kid had looked reserved in his prissy suit, but there was now an underlying danger oozing from him. A hint of madness. That was right up Hisoka’s alley. 

“It is! Neon is under my protection-” _A shame he is so dutiful,_ Hisoka thought. 

“Kurapika!”, Neon squeaked. “Chrollo- whoever he is- just wants to talk. These two have been very decent to me, and I would like to help them in any way I-”

“Help?” Kurapika’s voice was strained, as though he was trying his hardest to remain rational. 

A silence passed. Hisoka took the time to study the kid’s face. His eyes in particular were very distinctive, glinting a faint magenta under the glare of the sun. His features were almost regal in their geometry, the lines of his face sharp and precise, yet not without an air of upper-class softness. It reminded him, in some strange way, of Illumi. For the umpteenth time this week, the assassin was clogging his thoughts. Hisoka huffed quietly, justifying to himself that this obsession was simply another reason to meet with him. Once he quelled his curiosity, Hisoka could get back to his pursuit of Chrollo and all things important. 

_Chrollo._

Why was Kurapika so intense whenever the name was mentioned? Hisoka knew the Ryodan had their enemies, but he had seldom met a loose end (which Kurapika so obviously was) from some old conquest of the group. 

“Alright”, the blond said finally, face ashen as he looked past Hisoka and Machi into the far distance. 

“Chrissake”, Machi grumbled. “Why does everyone in this town insist on being so dramatic?”

“Let’s take our leave then. Our car is right over there.” Hisoka pointed to the dusty old vehicle parked down the street. Kurapika craned his neck to spot it. 

“I will drive”, the blond said firmly as they walked towards the car. 

Machi snorted. “No, you will not.”

Kurapika stopped suddenly. “Then Neon isn’t coming.”

Machi looked ready to pull someone’s hair out, turning on her heel to jab him in the chest. “Listen closely, you damp yellow washcloth, this isn’t up to you. We-”

“Machi, Machi, no need to be rude. Why don’t you navigate for the kid? I’ll sit with Neon.”

Kurapika scowled at him. “I don’t trust you with her.”

“You don’t seem to trust very much, Kurapika", Hisoka replied evenly. 

Something flicked in the kid’s brain, like he’d heard those words before. Well, if he was this demanding on a sunny afternoon, Hisoka could only imagine his pomp and paranoia in the dead of winter. He definitely had trust issues, maybe even family problems from the light bruises climbing his fingers up his suited arms. Hisoka held his gaze firmly, letting Kurapika's petulance run its course before he would back down. _Illumi wouldn't back down,_ chimed the useless voice in his brain. By the time Hisoka pushed simmering memories of Illumi down, Kurapika had conceded. 

“Fine. I know the way, but I suppose you can help." 

Machi complied reluctantly, knowing full well that they had a deadline to meet and no time to spare. 

"Neon, stay as far away as you can from _him._ ”, Kurapika added as Hisoka opened the car door, politely helping Neon into the backseat before getting in himself.

“Don’t worry so much. Hisoka is a gentleman.” 

“Is he now?”, Machi asked dryly. 

“A patient wolf, then”, Kurapika muttered as he slid into the driver’s seat. 

Hisoka bared his teeth, a dangerous gleam in eyes. 

“I’m flattered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I promise Illumi shows up for real in the next chapter lol
> 
> Also, the quote at the end is "A gentleman is simply a patient wolf", commonly attributed to Lana Turner. 
> 
> As always, feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
